Language of the Heart
by BittersweetSummer
Summary: At night she lays in bed and thinks of him.


At night, she lays in bed and thinks of him.

She always finds it horribly _wrong _that she thinks of _him, _when she should be thinking of the man next to her, the man she _loves_.

The memories are faint, but in every one there is an ever-constant image of white-blond hair and burning eyes and elegant, long-fingered hands.

His name escapes her at the moment, but sometimes, when all is quiet and she's alone in the house, she can hear the whispers in her head.

_Scorpius, Scorpius, Scorpius Malfoy_

And she gasps, hands flying to her mouth, and tells herself to _never think about him again._

Because she's a married woman, and the past is the past. _He _is the past, and he is nothing to her now.

But the whispers don't disappear as easily as she would like them to. If ever, they barrage her mind at the most inconvenient times.

In the morning, she's in the kitchen, while her husband is reading the _Prophet, _and her youngest is banging on the table with his plastic spoon while the older child is glaring at the toddler, muttering about "wild children" and how "they need to be controlled." She thinks that it would have been funny, hearing those phrases coming from a seven year old, if her mind weren't so occupied.

She sets down eggs in front of her moody child, aiming to kiss her on the cheek and pretending not to be hurt when the irritable girl turns her face away.

Her husband thanks her for breakfast (like he does every day) and pecks her on the cheek. She smiles at him and he smiles back, the picture of a perfect couple.

_Scorpius, Scorpius, Scorpius Malfoy_

The whispers are back in her head, taunting her as she looks fondly at the ruddy face of her husband, a far cry from the pale, pale skin that she distantly recalls. Her smile falters for a second too long, and she can see her spouse's eyes become troubled.

She feels guilty for thinking about _his _kisses while her husband is sitting there, unawares.

He leaves for work, with a wave and an "I love you" to his family, and she's left with blessed chores to occupy her, until the children are dropped off at school.

Then she's alone again, with the whispers of her past echoing in the back of her head.

She cleans the house (for the second time that day), scrubbing away the grime (and the memories) that fill her with disgust.

She uncovers a box of picture albums, and sees a younger Rose Weasley in them, waving cheerily up at her, full of promise, while the ruddy face of her husband beams at her picture-self with pride.

It is so, so, _so_ wrong to be thinking of him while she is looking at pictures of her wedding day, wishing that _he _were there instead of her husband.

She doesn't know why he was now an ever-constant in her mind. She was unusually good at keeping her memories locked away as long as she needed to, or until they disintegrated.

But she figures it out the next day, as she's sitting in their living room, utterly alone and with nothing to do but stare at the curtains.

Her days are a monotony of errands, cooking, cleaning, and sitting around until evening.

She tries to fence in her traitorous thoughts, but to no avail.

_Is this the life you imagined having, Rose Weasley? _

_Aren't you better than this?_

_You had a shining future ahead of you, and you wasted it._

She shakes her head, but the wetness in her eyes betray her.

And Rose Weasley cries as she remembers what she could have been.

* * *

"_Perfect grades as usual, Rose Weasley," he drawled, "Why am I not surprised?"_

"_Your grades aren't too shabby either, Malfoy."_

"_I'll take that as a compliment, coming from you."_

_She laughed._

_

* * *

_

"_I have no intention on being a needy housewife, Mum. No offense to Grandmum Molly, of course, but I'd quite like to work in the Ministry like you."_

_Hermione tried to hide her pride, but it shone in her eyes, not unnoticed by her daughter._

"_I believe you're quite capable of doing that dear. I was hoping that you were going to say that."_

_

* * *

_

"_A _Malfoy_, Rosie? I'm sorry honey, but a _Malfoy?"

_His gaze is agitated, while hers is stubborn._

"_We're dating and I won't have any stupid family prejudices get in the way of that."_

_Brief silence._

"_I just don't want you to regret this later on, Rosie."_

_Her reply is confident._

"_That's never going to happen."_

_

* * *

_

_They're studying in the library, and she can't focus on her Potions essay. Her attention is on the boy sitting across from her, on the sharp line of his jaw, on the strands of white-blond hair that fall across his forehead, on one long-fingered hand resting on the table as the other wrote frantically-_

"_If I didn't know better, Rose Weasley, I'd say that you were trying to distract me."_

_She flushed._

_

* * *

_

"_If I ever see you snogging my cousin like that again, Malfoy, you better run."_

"_Like you can catch me, Potter."_

_Scorpius kisses Rose again, and grabs her hand as they run outside, Albus in fierce pursuit._

_

* * *

_

"_Scorpius, Scorpius, Scorpius Malfoy." The name doesn't sound funny to her anymore._

"_You're acting quite strangely today, love."_

"_Say it again."_

"_You're acting mental today?"_

_She thwacks him, and they laugh._

"_Say that word again, Scorpius. Love."_

_His gaze turns smoldering._

"_Love, love, love."_

_She takes a deep breath._

"_I love, love, love you, Scorpius Malfoy."_

"_I love, love, love you too, Rose Weasley."_

_

* * *

_

"_Rose-"_

"_Please, Scorpius. Don't make this harder than it has to be."_

"_He's a decent guy. He's just not right for you."_

"_There's _never _any right person for me, is there? According to you, at least."_

"_Rose, don't marry him. For my sake."_

"_For _your _sake, Scorpius? Do you know how stupid you sound right now? I'm done doing things for _your _sake and I'm doing it for myself."_

"_Funny that you're saying that now, Rose. Weren't you the one that told me that we had to stop seeing each other, for _your _sake?"_

"_That was years ago. Our Hogwarts days are over."_

"_You're still my best friend, Rose. And I won't let you do this."_

_His face is so close to hers, and his eyes are burning into hers with an intensity that she never knew he had. Her reply is whispered._

"_I love him, Scorpius."_

_His eyes lose their fire, and he slowly backs away. She is surprised that she misses his closeness._

"_Okay, Rose Weasley. Do what you want. But promise me one thing."_

_She nods, her eyes on him. There is an expression in them that she cannot quite decipher._

"_You have dreams too, remember that. Don't throw your life away for him, Rose."_

_He leaves without looking back._

_And that was the last she saw of Scorpius Malfoy._

_

* * *

_

"Are you okay, love?"

She jerks up, eyes wild. Something inside of her dies when she sees brown eyes and hair, not the grey and blond that she was expecting.

"_I love, love, love you, Scorpius Malfoy."_

"Don't call me that."

The words are out of her mouth before she can register them, sharper than she intended them to be.

He acquiesces. And her heart swells with guilt at how trusting he is.

"Rose, honey? Are you okay?"

"Yes, sorry. Just a little tired, that's all."

"Why don't you go and lie down, then? I'll pick up the kids today."

She murmurs a thank you, and kisses him, trying to ignore the throb in her chest.

As she lay in her bed, staring at the ceiling, she thinks of Scorpius Malfoy and the life she had almost lived, if she hadn't been such a fool.

"_Love, love, love."_

"_I love, love, love you, Scorpius Malfoy."_

She thinks of her children, of her husband, of how they don't deserve to love her like they do, and that they shouldn't let her kiss them, with lips that yearned for another's.

So right then and there, she makes a decision.

When her husband gets home, she comes downstairs to greet her family, smiling. She lives her life as a faithful wife and a loving mother, keeping her dirty secret clutched close to her heart. She is an actress in a play that she can't stand being in.

She loves them all, she really does.

The problem is, that she finds herself loving someone else even more.

* * *

So she goes to sleep that night and dreams of white-blond hair and burning eyes and elegant, long-fingered hands and a voice that will haunt her as long as she lives.

"_I love, love, love you too, Rose Weasley."_

_

* * *

_

Sometimes she hopes, selfishly, that wherever he was, with his beautiful wife and beautiful, happy family, that he was thinking of her too.

..

..

He was.


End file.
